


and love too, will ruin us

by primreaper



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, okay it gets extremely tender at the end but there's much yearning before that, what's the tag for fics that sort of go thru their historical meetings cus here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 00:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20381011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primreaper/pseuds/primreaper
Summary: “Are you,” Aziraphale begins, voice shaking. The dim golden glow of the street lamps flickers through the passenger seat window, illuminating the side of his face. He isn’t looking at Crowley, instead staring resolutely ahead.“You’re in love with me,” he says, and his voice is steadier.Crowley tightens his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles whiten. “Yes.”(In which Crowley and Aziraphale are pining, but are both painfully aware of it.)





	and love too, will ruin us

_1941_

Here it is: the terrible, selfish truth. Crowley has had five thousand years to think about it, five thousand years to scream and cry and bless the cruel irony bestowed upon his demonic soul. 

He’s in love with Aziraphale. Painfully, unforgivably in love with him. 

From the moment they met in Eden, Crowley had known. Somewhere on a high stone wall overlooking a lush garden, the only color in the whole world, it had knocked all the air out of his lungs, newly corporeal and unused to the violent act of breathtaking. Aziraphale had beamed, and almost helplessly, he had thought, _This is it for me, isn’t it? Him and this and us. Whatever happens, it’s going to be us. I don’t know why but it’s like this and this is how it’s going to be. Until the end. _

_To the end then,_ he thinks grimly.

Crowley’s had five thousand years to think about what would happen if he told him (_“Angel, I’m in love with you. I always have been._) and Aziraphale’s possible responses (_“We’re enemies, Crowley. How could an angel ever love a demon?”_) and it hurts, but he knows an outright rejection would be less painful than words of affirmation. 

There has simply never been an angel who has fallen in love with a demon. Crowley can’t even fathom what would happen: would the divinity tear out of Aziraphale in a frenzy of ichor and force him to fall? Would he be consumed by hellfire and turn into ash and nothingness? Would it be a sin? 

After so many years, he’s had time to rationalize it, to compartmentalize his emotions into a small box separate from logic. If he loves Aziraphale he could Fall, or worse. And he won’t, _can’t,_ take that risk. 

He remembers his own Fall. The stench of sulfur and brimstone bleeding into him, the endless and shearing descent where his divinity had been stripped from him atom by atom, the _burning._ The first time hellfire had touched his skin and belonged there, the last bright and infinitesimal thing in him had broken irreparably. The thought of that happening to Aziraphale sends a debilitating, vicious wave of fear through him. 

So he keeps it close to his chest, tight between the bones of his ribcage. It aches, but Crowley reasons, it’s worth it. As long as Aziraphale is safe and happy. 

The worst part, perhaps, out of many terrible parts is that Crowley has a terrible sinking suspicion that Aziraphale loves him back. He sees it sometimes, the way his face lights up when they find one another, the fondness in his eyes when Crowley remembers little things about him. 

Crowley prays to God, to _any_ God that it’s his imagination. He loves Aziraphale too much to bear, too much to hurt him by saying no. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to say no to the only person he’s ever loved. 

So when he sees the look on Aziraphale’s face, the trembling delicate set of his mouth when he passes him the ashy suitcase of books, a look that says, _Oh, I understand now,_ he wants to scream. And when he sees Aziraphale’s eyes widen when their fingers brush, he wants to cry. 

He should be used to feeling like that now, but it’s different this time. There’s hope that he desperately needs to quash. 

Around them, the church is still blazing, its high arches crumbled and smoking, and in the air dying embers swirl around them, fading brilliantly to grey. Breathing in deeply, the taste of ash coating his lungs, he turns away from Aziraphale. He doesn’t look back when he says, “Lift home?” The fire is still thickly viscous on his tongue. 

“Are you,” Aziraphale begins, voice shaking. The dim golden glow of the street lamps flickers through the passenger seat window, illuminating the side of his face. He isn’t looking at Crowley, instead staring resolutely ahead. 

“You’re in love with me,” he says, and his voice is steadier. 

Crowley tightens his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles whiten. “Yes.” 

And now Aziraphale is looking at him, and his expression is so soft, so tender and a little bit heartbroken that Crowley has to tear his eyes away. “Crowley, I-” 

_I’m in love with you too._ No. No. Crowley wants this so much, and something raw and newborn scrapes at the inside of his chest, something that screams, _Just take this! Isn’t this what you want? Isn’t this the only thing you want?_

He cuts him off. “But you _can’t,_ angel,” and the nickname is heavy, now. Weighed down. “You could Fall or- or be destroyed, and you can’t- I can’t- ” 

Crowley takes a deep breath. Forgetting himself, he touches Aziraphale’s hand lightly and then jerks it back as if burned. Unintentionally, the Bentley speeds up. “Forgive me. I’m... really sorry.” His voice cracks when he says that; he means it for every decade that he couldn’t bear to look in his eyes, wouldn’t touch him for fear of tainting him with sin. He (selfishly) hopes Aziraphale can hear what he means between the words, has meant in all of his words: _I love you I love you I love you._

Turning away almost imperceptibly, Aziraphale closes his eyes. His voice is unreadable when he says, “I understand, dear. Maybe one day…” 

His voice trails off, but Crowley knows. Oh, how he knows. 

\--

_1967_

Nighttime in Soho is, for lack of a better word, beautiful. Neon lights drift to form a soft haze of reds, pinks, and purples, and in the distance, Crowley can hear the ambient sounds of engines humming and laughter. _It’s like nowhere else in the universe,_ he thinks.

He’s so caught up in the brightness, the luminous vibrancy of it all that he startles when Aziraphale appears in the passenger seat beside him. He half-flinches again when he realizes that everything, all the lights around him, seems to dull in comparison to Aziraphale. 

Crowley can acknowledge that he is not the most demonic of demons, but he is not an idiot. He watches Aziraphale’s face as he says firmly, “But I can’t have you risking your life. Not even for something dangerous.” Traces the lines of his frowning mouth, the shine in his eyes. 

The holy water is a gift, one that says in Aziraphale’s own restrained way, _I care about you. Please let me._ Crowley wonders briefly if it’s just repayment for all the times he’s saved him, but something about Aziraphale’s expression feels like a knife twisting sharply in his gut, and he knows that’s not it. 

Not for the first time, Crowley is at a loss for words. For a moment, he just stares at the small tartan bottle on his dashboard, thinking about all the words it has inside of it. Finally, he says, “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” 

Silently, he begs Aziraphale to take the offer. To turn this into a mutual partnership, back into the professional, distant Arrangement. Everything that they are now is too dangerous. Everything they are now is too close to what Crowley wants. 

Perhaps Aziraphale has been cataloging Crowley’s face too, because his mouth opens and shuts quickly. His expression is resigned and hurt, like a man in the desert who has seen water and lost it to mirage in his fingertips, but he doesn’t turn away. Crowley waits for him to make the next move in this chess game neither of them can win. 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” he says quietly. Neither of them speaks. In the silence, a wine-red neon sign behind Aziraphale’s head flickers and dims. 

Wordlessly, he gets out of the car and leaves. 

Crowley stares out the window of the passenger seat, watching him walk away. He suddenly feels very alone and very old. He touches the tartan side of the bottle of holy water delicately, fearfully, and pauses. 

And then, without speaking, he begins to pray. 

\--

_The Very First Day of the Rest of Their Lives _

Vaguely, Crowley can appreciate the completeness, the bookendedness of their situation. One day after the end of the world, and they’re sitting across from one another in Aziraphale’s musty flat, the taste of dust and expensive wine on their tongues, the same way they had the day they found out the world would be ending. Occasionally, their hands will brush when passing a bottle back and forth, and Crowley tries his best not to savor the brief warmth from Aziraphale’s palms, his fingertips. 

(Carefully, as though the words were fragile enough to shatter in his mouth, Aziraphale had asked if Crowley wanted to stay the night at his place. “It’s really the least I can do after you let me stay over at yours, of course,” he had said nonchalantly, but his voice had wobbled, just a little bit.) 

Crowley hiccups out a laugh against the lip of a really very nice bottle of cabernet sauvignon. “And then the Archangel-Fucking-Gabriel looked like he was going to shit his celestial pants!” He swallows enough cabernet that Aziraphale gives him a disapproving look and finishes, “I never liked him. What a wanker.” 

Indignant, Aziraphale snatches the bottle from him and tries to straighten up, but evidently finds it too much effort because he slumps back downward and says, somewhat slurred, “Well, I didn’t much like your side, either. Discompor- discornpo- killed a demon just for being there!” 

“Not really my side anymore, angel. And Heaven isn’t really yours either.” Crowley yawns widely and says, “B’sides, I think they’ll be leaving us alone for a while after our… uh…” He waves a hand vaguely. “Thingy.” 

Aziraphale freezes beside him, and then very slowly sets down the cabernet. Blinking, he clears his throat, and Crowley can tell he’s sobered up by the stark alertness in his eyes. Bit alarming, really. “So, you’re quite sure? That the Forces of Heaven and Hell will leave us alone?” 

Crowley is too drunk to tell where this is going. Fuck’s sake. He flicks his wrist and winces as the bottles strewn across the floor fill back up again. The sour taste in his mouth and everything being in perfect clarity makes him remember how bloody terrible sobriety is. He twists so he can look at Aziraphale. “Uh, yeah, pretty sure. Nearly positive. Why?” 

Aziraphale shuts his eyes tightly, looking pained. His body is stiff, but his hands wring together nervously, around and around. “Do you remember,” he says haltingly, “That night at the church? Almost a century ago, I believe.” Crowley doesn’t move. 

His voice is shaky, but he continues. “And I asked you if you loved me.” 

Crowley hears himself say, “I did.” _And I do,_ he doesn’t say. The pounding in his chest, inhumanly fast and unnecessary, chokes him. 

“You interrupted me that night,” Aziraphale says softly. His hands have stilled in his lap. 

Crowley feels something tugging inside his chest and instinctively he pushes it away. He takes off his sunglasses and sets them on the coffee table, dragging a hand down his face. “You know why, angel. It’s too dangerous, even if Heaven and Hell aren’t watching,” he says heavily. He’s so tired. Loving is unbearably exhausting. 

At that, Aziraphale leans forward, forehead creased with incredulity. “Crowley, we just lived through what was meant to be Armageddon! You remember, the end of the world as we knew it? It was going to rob us of everything we have ever loved on this world, everything we have ever loved, and you truly believe that I’m not willing to take risks now?” 

Aziraphale sighs. 

Gently, he takes Crowley’s trembling hand from his face and laces his fingers through it. “I’m willing to take every risk for this.” 

For a moment, everything is still and silent. “Say it then,” Crowley croaks, and Aziraphale looks as though he might shatter with joy. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, radiant. He brings Crowley’s hand to his mouth and kisses it. “I love you.” Cupping his face in one hand, tenderly, like it’s something delicate, Aziraphale whispers, “I love you.” 

Crowley closes the distance between the two of them and kisses him. And the world does not end. Aziraphale kisses him back and his lips are soft and the heady taste of alcohol is still in the corners of his mouth and it’s _everything._ “I love you too,” he says against Aziraphale’s mouth, hushed and reverent. 

And in the taste of his smile, Crowley forgets about hellfire, about torn wings or sulfur or Falling. 

Instead, he remembers Rising. 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> i was like "obviously its wired that theyre pining and in love......but i could make it hurt..... so much more...."  
my favorite thing in the whole world is writing fics where the main character yearns so i figured i could double my yearning levels this way! in conclusion im tender and art is the biggest snitch good night
> 
> title is from richard silken's scherazade


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